#there’s probably a couple more but if I suddenly became a wanted criminal overnight and needed someone to protect me

[seokwoosmole]

Never has my opinion about a non-antagonist character changed so drastically than it has about Shigure ok there might have been some before but right now I can’t think of any.

I went from “Oh he’s just a silly lil guy” to “*sobs* silly *sobs again* DAD” to “ohhhh….silly….pervy😳lil guy” to “ohhhh….silly mysterious guy???” to “oh- oh….😬”

[peterprkrsbtch]

sapphire - part 1

Peter Parker x reader

A/N: This is some type of wish fulfillment writing for me because I like to imagine becoming a hot and badass superhero when I fall asleep and I thought other people may be entertained as well :) If you enjoy it, like or reblog to share!

REMINDER: in this story, the reader gains superpowers and I do describe the appearance of her body. i hope you know every body is a superhero body and weight does not impact your beauty at all-i just needed to show how drastic the changes were!

Warnings: Swearing, fighting, attempted kidnapping, guns/violence

The sun that came beaming through your window brightly as you opened the blinds in your room immediately brought a small smile to your face. Summer had always been your favorite season. As smart as you were, a three month break from Midtown has never sounded better. Junior year had not been easy for you.

Small goosebumps appear on your arms as you shiver when the memory of that night crosses your mind.

***

You’d been walking home after your first day of school, distracted as images of the day flicker through your mind. The first day was always exciting, new classes and people. Probably why you were too distracted to notice the man creeping up behind you until he wrapped his hands around your backpack and yanked it off of your back, making you let out a yelp of surprise.

Or, he’d tried to. Unfortunately, this dumb ass criminal didn’t know how backpack straps work and when he tugged, the straps caught around your arms and yanked you off your feet, slamming your body into your attacker with a groan.

Panic immediately clouded your mind. You’d never been mugged before. You try desperately to remember anything from the self defense class you’d taken in seventh grade. The attacker seemed surprised that your bag hadn’t slid off your body and this gave you the opportunity to scream. “Help!” You shrieked. “Somebody!” It was the middle of the day in New York and yet, the street you were walking was dead empty.

“Shut the fuck up.” The man growled in your ear and you suddenly became aware of his death grip on your arm. Before you could contemplate punching him in the face or kneeing his dick, a sharp poke on your arm made you whip your head, just in time to see a needle full of glowing blue liquid being injected into your arm by the man. He hadn’t wanted your backpack at all.

The shock you felt as you watched the unfamiliar substance enter your body was amplified at the burning sensation quickly spreading from the injection site to your whole upper arm. The man lets out a harsh laugh, and you finally turn to see his face. He did not look like a homeless man. Or a thief. The sight of his groomed beard and expensive jacket made you feel like you’d been plunged in ice. What the hell was happening?

“What did you do to me?” The sound of your voice is much stronger than you expect it to be, and it helps to ease a couple of the butterflies going mental inside your stomach. At least you didn’t sound terrified. He just lets out a low laugh and begins to drag you by your backpack towards a car parked on the opposite side of the road you hadn’t noticed until now.

“You’re coming with me.”

The burning had spread to your entire left arm and was now taking over your left shoulder. If you didn’t have adrenaline coursing through your veins due to your current situation, you would’ve been doubled over with pain. You struggle against the man’s hold on your backpack as he drags you closer to the large black SUV.

Hell no. I am not getting kidnapped today. You force yourself to calm enough to quickly think of a plan. Any plan. When the man reaches the car despite your struggling, a disgusting sneer on his face, he lets go of his grip on your arm to reach for the handle, and you take your chance to head-butt him as hard as you possibly can-letting your arms slide out of the backpack as you do.

“Ow! Get back here you little bitch!” But it’s too late. In the two seconds when the man doubles over to clutch at his head, you’d snatched your backpack from the ground where he’d let it fall and sprinted down the street. You try to tell yourself that the unbearable burning sensation now settling into your chest is from running, not from whatever the fuck he’d injected you with.

***

A loud beep, beep from the clock on your bedside table snaps you out of reminiscing on your near death experience and a large smile grows on your face. Finally it was 5 p.m, the time when your mom usually went over to her boyfriend’s apartment across town. Every night, like clockwork, since you were 13.

It used to bother you, but now the silence gives you the opportunity to do what you needed to do alone. You get up and move towards your closet as you let your mind slip into your memories again as you reminisce on the events after the attack.

***

You’d run home like hell and had never been so grateful to find that your mom had left early. Within ten minutes, the burning had spread and you were left to writhe around in pain on your bed for hours. There was no let up, no break. You knew you were going to die.

Whatever the man had injected in you was breaking apart every muscle, every atom in your body so slowly that you could feel it. Eventually, your pained screams became quieter as exhaustion began to take over. This is it. I’m really going to die. My mom is going to come home and find me like this-

Before you could finish your thought, a harsh gasp involuntarily left your mouth and you launch forward to sit up. Okay, maybe I’m not going to die. You thought as the pain suddenly ceases. You slowly bring your hands up to stare at them, scared that the pain will return. Just as you’re about to let out a breath of relief, it hits you again.

And it’s so much worse. The burning sensation shoots through your body, and every broken muscle and molecule felt as though it was being bound together again. The minutes bleed together as exhaustion and pain take over your body.

***

Looking back, you still have no idea what was in the injection. All you know is what happened because of it.

***

Beep, beep.

Beep, beep.

BEEP, BEEP.

The incessant beeping of your stupid alarm wakes you from quite possibly the weirdest dream you’ve ever had. You’ve never had pain in a dream feel so vivid before, and the memory alone draws your body inwards, hugging your arms in for comfort.

Your arms. Hold on.

They didn’t feel like this last night. You glance down at your skin, the shadow of your blanket making it hard to see. You rip the covers off and storm over to your full length mirror-and all you can do is let out a gasp. I’m going crazy.

With shaking hands, you grab your phone and unlock it, scrolling until you find a mirror selfie you had taken at the pool over summer, just two weeks ago. You glance at the photo, then back up at the mirror. Then at the photo, then the mirror. Photo, mirror, photo.

A shocked laugh rips through your lips as you stare at the photo of yourself. Smooth skin and curves. A couple extra pounds of baby fat you had yet to lose, a spot or three of acne on your forehead. You weren’t an extraordinarily insecure person, but you were a teenage girl and a couple of those things had bugged you but-

Your eyes flicker up to the mirror. You run your hands along your arms. You used to describe them as flabby, but you can feel and see the toned, tight skin. You move your eyes to your boobs. Were they bigger? They definitely looked bigger.

Any “baby fat” you carried had seemingly disappeared overnight. You slowly lift your shirt and let your jaw drop, running your hands over your small waist, not missing the muscle you can feel under your skin. Your skin was perfectly clear and your hair and lashes both seemed longer and healthier.

When you were younger and more naive, you’d hoped puberty would involve waking up one morning looking like a Victoria’s Secret model. But that was stupid. Things like that don’t happen, right?

Slowly, the events of yesterday began to register in your mind. The attack, the injection, the pain. A million questions flooded your mind. The most prominent being what the actual fuck??

“Y/n? You almost ready to leave for school?” Your mom’s voice rings out into your silent room as she knocks on your bedroom door.

“Yeah, Mom! Just a couple minutes.” You call out nervously, waiting until you hear her footsteps walk away from your door. You let out a curse as you race into the bathroom, the harsh lighting illuminating even more changes to your face.

Your lips were bigger, your eyes more open, and your cheekbones and jaw more defined. Fuck. If you weren’t so worried about anyone noticing your overnight transformation, you would’ve taken more time to think about the positives of this situation.

You were always shy and quiet at school, choosing a small group of people to hang around and mostly focusing on your classes. But every teenage girl dreams of being beautiful, and now you finally were. You pull your hair up to brush your teeth and wash your face faster than you ever have before, electing to ignore the fact that you should have a nasty bruise from your head-butt yesterday.

You choose to skip makeup completely, knowing it would draw more attention to your new face. You took one last look at your body in the mirror before pulling on the baggiest sweats you owned and a loose hoodie, hoping they would mask your new curves.

You had no idea how you were supposed to hide this all year.

***

You smiled as you remember how silly you’d acted the next day. You were overly paranoid, covering your face with your hoodie as much as you could and choosing to sit alone in the library rather than at your usual table. No one questioned you, not once.

You had felt a pang of loneliness at first, knowing that no one at your school even cared enough to notice the obvious change had hurt just a bit, but it made dealing with the powers easier.

***

You’d first noticed it on the walk to school. It was barely September and the summer sun was still coming down on the city. This paired with your heavy layers of clothing and the long walk to school would normally leave you slightly breathless. As you arrived at the school feeling more energized and alive than ever, you noticed you’d gotten there in a fourth of your normal time without even trying.

You next noticed it in gym, when the daily pushups the teachers forced you all to do every year were suddenly easy. Effortless. As soon as the final bell rang, you ran home within minutes without feeling winded at all and winced as you threw your door open, nearly ripping it off it’s hinges.

Something else was definitely going on. Your appearance was not the only thing that seemed to go through an upgrade. You said a quick hello to your mom before running up to your room.

For the first time since you woke up that morning, you relaxed once your door was closed and locked. Your shoulders release as you sink to your bed, dropping your head into your hands. You try to recall anything you’ve read about people being totally changed after some sort of injection.

Your heart sinks. Captain America jumps to mind. The Winter Soldier, Wanda Maximoff and her dead brother. They’d all been injected.

You bite your lip and glance at a book sitting on your bedside table. You straighten up and thrust your hands towards the book, trying to make it move. Unsurprisingly, nothing happens. You close your eyes and breath out a small breath of relief. Ok so I’m beautiful now and have great endurance, at least I’m not a superhero. You let yourself relax slightly, your eyes still closed. Now you feel dumb for throwing your hands around like some kind of knock off Scarlet Witch.

When you open your eyes, your blood runs cold. The book is floating in front of you, a blue glow surrounding it. Slowly, you raise your, now shaking, hands again towards the book until they flash with the same blue and it launches towards you, the force of it making you rock back as you catch it in your hands.

Well. Fuck.

***

After that, you were thankful that no one had noticed anything out of the ordinary. You bite down a smile as you remember the first few months after, thinking about how much you’d changed since then.

***

You spent nearly every night for weeks studying every superhero fight video you could find on youtube and practicing the moves alone in your empty house, over and over.

It didn’t take much for you to perfect them as your new body seemed to be built for this kind of shit. Black Widow was your favorite to watch, and you made sure to spend extra time working through her signature moves, letting the flips, kicks, and punches become muscle memory.

You spent time practicing your real powers as well, though those seemed to come to you naturally. After that first delay with the book, it had almost felt like second nature to lift up the heaviest objects in your house with just a wave of the hand, but still, you practiced. Over and over and over. You quickly learned you could move people as well, namely yourself. Flying over New York in the middle of the night was something that would always leave you breathless.

Once winter settled over New York, you decided you were finally ready to try and use your abilities for good. You had near perfect control over your “magic” and you were pretty sure you’d spent more hours in the past month punching the air than sleeping.

You spent all day Sunday bent over the dusty sewing machine you dug out of a shelf in your kitchen closet. The trip to Joann’s reminded you of your mother teaching a younger you how to sew, though you two never bought yards of spandex to make a skin tight suit.

It had taken a couple minutes for you to remember how to use the machine, but you were extremely proud of the final product. You’d made a simple skin tight black suit with a zipper up the front and a mask to cover most of your face, but you figured no one could recognize you by just your mouth.

Once you finished the last hem on your face mask, you took the suit and the mask and hid them in your closet next to a pair of black combat boots. You put the dusty machine away and finally made your way into your bathroom, glancing nervously at the box on the counter.

Although you had exactly zero friends at Midtown, you had grown up with some of these kids and you couldn’t risk one of them recognizing your hair color if they saw you in your superhero suit and the box advertising temporary spray on hair color seemed to be the perfect solution.

You take the small can out of the box and spray blonde-ish highlights into your hair and brush it through until your long hair is shades lighter than your natural color and you’re happy with the results.

Your hands shook as you pulled on your suit, then your mask, and finally, the black boots. You move to your mirror and nervously give yourself a glance, only to be pleasantly surprised. You really do look like a superhero, even more so when you will your hands to glow blue with your powers.

***

That night, you learned that you had severely underestimated yourself. You thought memories of your own attack would flash before your eyes every time you knocked down a criminal, but it didn’t.

Every time you would wrap your thighs around someone’s neck to drag them to the ground you felt strong and every time the person you just saved would begin to thank you aggressively, you knew you made the right decision to help people.

You kept your guard, and your hood, up during the school days but your months of training and now your late night rescues, had caused a spike in your confidence. After a particularly hard 18 vs. 1 fight in which your zipper had gotten yanked down a bit, you just left it. It looked better like that anyway.

You wished you had someone to show the new you. You used to be so unsure of yourself, and now because of a seemingly random attack, you had the ability to help people. It definitely felt good to be doing something good.

Unfortunately, your endeavors started to become sensationalized. New York was obsessed with superheroes, you knew this. But you never thought people would start paying attention to you.

You should’ve known better. A girl with enhanced curves in a skin tight suit, flying around the city with glowing blue hands and fighting crime with her front zipper pulled down, and you thought you could remain invisible in the media too?

Luckily for you, the spotlight was cast upon another new superhero around the same time-a Spiderman. Once he entered the superhero scene just weeks after yourself, you noticed the articles you’d previously seen sexualizing you and your costume turned into articles about the two of you instead. If only those reporters knew you were 17.

You were thankful for him even though you’d never met him, and your two names “Spiderman and Sapphire” were often used in the same headlines to discuss you two newcomers.

At first you hated the nickname the media gave you simply because of the increased attention, but you learned to love it. It was nice to see people appreciating what you were doing, even though every camera that was ever pointed your way made you anxious to protect your identity.

Ever since your first winter night spent fighting crime, you’d quickly fallen into a pattern. School with your eyes glued to your desk the whole time, sweats and hoodies concealing your body, then homework until your mom leaves, then go out and help your city.

Your fighting has improved to the point that you almost prefer hand to hand combat rather than using your powers. On especially slow nights, you’ve let yourself drag out a fight with some bank robbers or kidnappers just to entertain yourself.

It was your escape. In your suit, with your face covered and your hair thick with the lightening spray, was the only time you felt like yourself. Really yourself.

But you had a plan to change that. As easy as it had been to lay low throughout the last year at school, you’d had enough. You wanted more. So you had a plan. A new body and face overnight is impossible, but over three months? Totally plausible.

You were excited for three months with nothing to do but go out as Sapphire, and you knew these few months were going to be the calm before the storm if you really decided to go back to Midtown as the new you.

God, enough with the reminiscing. You told yourself, but you do allow yourself to feel pride at how much you’d matured from your first day of school this year to your last as you tug on your familiar suit and mask.

***

You glance down at the buildings beneath you, eyes silently scanning every dark alley and corner for trouble. Your hands glow blue as you fly yourself gracefully through the sky. Suddenly, loud sirens and screams sound from beneath you and you look down to see 8 large men climbing into a bank as they smashed the windows.

You quickly fly yourself down and through the hole behind the men as they point guns towards the only two people in the bank, a janitor and a man you assume is the manager. “Give us the fucking money.” One of the men growls and the others laugh menacingly at their friend’s threat.

The manager notices you standing behind the men and his eyes widen, causing the men to start to turn towards you. You grab the gun out of one of their hands using your powers and smirk at the oh, shit look on their faces. Before you can make a move to knock the man nearest you off his feet, a web snaps through the broken window and snatches the gun from his hands before you can blink.

Spiderman comes swinging through the opening, landing gracefully. “What’s going on here, fellas?” He asks, and you can’t help but smirk at the sound of his voice. The two of you seemed to live similar lives, and yet this was your first time meeting him.

The white eyes of his mask flicker from the men, frozen with fear, towards you, and his eyes grow with recognition and maybe shock? Hard to tell with the mask. He opens his mouth to say something else, but one of the men still holding guns raises it and fires towards Spiderman without a second of hesitation.

You raise your hand quickly, stopping the bullet in mid-air and everyone around you stares at the bullet suspended in mid-air, your glowing blue hand outstretched, almost as if you were catching it. Spiderman’s eyes widen even more. “Holy shit.”

You smile to yourself and clench your hand into a fist, letting the bullet crumble to the ground in dust. “Nice try.” You say to the man. “But you’re getting on my nerves.” You turn towards the 8 men in front of you, 5 still holding guns. You move your hand to face the men, and with a sweeping motion, the 5 guns are yanked from their hands to suspend far above their heads, where they couldn’t reach.

You can’t help a small laugh as one of the men tries to jump up and grab it. You turn towards Spiderman who’s standing there with his mouth wide open. “Sorry if I stole your moment.” You say genuinely. You had no doubt that he could’ve taken care of this himself, but you had gotten here first.

“Are you kidding?” He nearly squeaked. “That was amazing, oh my god! I can’t believe we haven’t met until now.” Your cheeks blaze slightly under your mask from his praise, you’ve never had a superhero compliment you before. You adjust your focus back to the men quickly, who seem to be thinking of a way to run.

Your eyes meet Spidey’s again. “You wanna web ‘em up?” He nods excitedly, his eyes finally breaking from yours as he jumps into action. As impressed as he was by you, you couldn’t help but watch in awe as he swings around the room and with a thwick, he webs all of the men together in a cocoon, hanging upside down from the chandelier of the bank ceiling.

He swings himself one last time to land next to you again. “Cool.” You say before you can even realize your mouth is open. “I mean, you’re not too bad yourself.” He bows his head a bit, seeming shy even though it was a half-compliment to cover up your embarrassment.

“Sorry to bust in on your fight,” He says, glancing around the room towards the two terrified employees staring at the two of you in shock. “Not a lot happening tonight, and I didn’t know you were here.”

“Ugh, I know.” You agree. “Not to complain about less crime, but our jobs have been a little bit too easy this past week.” His mask crinkles as he smiles.

“We could...work together sometime if you wanted too, of course.” He says nervously, nearly stuttering on his words. “It’s just, you’re really good and you seem really cool and I-”

You interrupt his word vomit. “Of course I want to! I’ve been wondering when we would meet.” His eyes move from staring at the eye holes in your mask down to your lips when you smile. “How’s tomorrow?”

“How’s right now?” You don’t think your smile can get wider. “One sec.” He holds up a finger before quickly running over to the two bank workers, who thank you both over and over and then they both hugged him. You were wrong, your smile grows and remains goofy and big as he runs back over to you. “Let’s go.”

That night you found out that your view of the city is 100 times better when you can also see a red and blue suit swinging from building to building out of the corner of your eye.

[when-they-write-stuff]

Soooooo, I was going to ask you if you could write something about one of the prompts from the list. I was going for #1 but then I realised I misread it.... Instead of "dodgy", I read "doggy" (🙈). But then I was curious.... Could you write Sterek and “He’s respectable, but, ya’ know, a little bit doggy.” ???? It's okay if not ;) 💕

Of course, I can do that! It’ll be even more fun ;)

- -

There were rumors about Stiles Stilinski.

Yeah, that’s what they could be called. Rumors. Not the truth, not actually real— or that’s what a lot of kids liked to say, at least. Because Stiles Stilinski was, well… Stiles Stilinski. 

He was the spastic, sarcastic, and eventually sardonic son of the local country Sheriff.

Stiles Stilinski was the kid who could pass every single math test without studying and then accidentally skip out on finals because he forgot they existed. He ran around in clothes that were too big for him and stumbled over his own feet when going at a normal pace. 

Stiles was… well, he was Stiles. And that was the easiest way to describe him.

Things started changing around sophomore year of high school.

Miguel knew he wasn’t the only one who noticed it. Stiles started acting different and that would be putting it mildly. A lot of people at Beacon Hills started acting different, if Miguel was being honest, and that might’ve been when the rumors started spreading.

It began with the arrival of the new Argent girl. And by the time sophomore year was winding down to an end, Stiles Stilinski just wasn’t Stiles Stilinski anymore.

It made more sense in Miguel’s head.

He watched as the circles underneath Stiles’s eyes slowly started growing darker. The boy was laughing less and smirking more. There was this curl to his lips that could make Miguel’s heart stutter and he had never considered himself one to fall for a simple look, but he knew he wasn’t the only one recognizing the changes in Stilinski.

And then there were his bodyguards.

That’s the only thing they could be considered, at least. The three kids who had once been the outcasts of Beacon Hills and suddenly became irresistible overnight. Miguel might have believed it was witchcraft if he didn’t believe in things like that.

The point was, the three kids gravitated to Stiles like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“They’re part of a gang,” some kids said.

“They’ve killed a man,” claimed others. Miguel didn’t believe any of it.

Then Isaac Lahey’s dad showed up dead.

A lot of things added fire to the rumors, but that one was the greatest. In a matter of one day, the Stilinski gang went from possible criminals to full-blown murders and that really shouldn’t have been as sexy as Miguel considered it. 

The boy’s dad was the Sheriff. Some kids like to say he covered for them; in whatever the hell went on in Beacon Hills.

Then Jackson Whittemore and Lydia Martin started hanging out with Stilinski too. And the rumors went wild from there.

More time passed. The Stilinski group was dubiously named ‘biker jeans and leather jackets’ and went on to get more unruly. Darker circles formed underneath Stiles’s eyes. By the time junior year rolled around, everyone knew not to mess with Stilinski and his friends.

They’d acquired a few more individuals. Two of the new girls. A younger underclassman who looked like a puppy but was rumored to have a hell of a delinquent background.

Erica had been suspended from school three times for threatening to disembowel anyone that looked at Stilinski wrong. There was this one time a lacrosse player rammed into Stiles a little too hard during practice and Lahey threw him into the nearest goal like he weighed nothing more than a lacrosse ball. But Miguel thought the middle guard was the scariest. Vernon Boyd, who had never been given a second glance until he came to school one day with Erica at his side and a leather jacket on his shoulders. And suddenly, everyone in school avoided him like the plague.

When he smirked, it was terrifying.

The Stilinski gang wore leather jackets. Those around them radiated an air of ‘I will cut you’. Not a single one wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous. Miguel thought it was a required necessity to join the group or something.

Strange things came and went with their group. It was the little things at first; there would be a couple of hikers reported to have gone missing. Stiles and his group would disappear for a few days, the school would get quiet, and when they came back, everything was fine. It was like there had never been a disturbance at all.

Then there were the big things. 

A massacre of headless corpses or a pattern of brutal killings. Stiles’s face would grow paler, the shadows under his eyes would grow longer, and by the time the news reports had gone quiet, his smirk would have a sharper edge than ever before.

Kids claimed he kept a barbed baseball bat in the back of his jeep. Miguel didn’t believe it.

Around the end of senior year, though, people had decided maybe the Stilinski gang wasn’t a bunch of murderers. Maybe they were a secret group of vigilantes that kept Beacon Hills safe instead.

For some reason, Miguel couldn’t disregard that one as easily.

The rumors grew and branched out from there. Miguel was pretty sure there was a ‘Stilinski Gang’ conspiracy theorist group that met every other Friday and discussed things at the local library. Last he heard, people were thinking that Stiles was the leader of a group of supernatural beings. Which he thought was ridiculous, personally.

Because it was ridiculous, right? It had to be.

But then there was this one time Miguel’s best friend came to school with a picture of a figure in a red hoodie holding a bloody baseball bat, saying he’d taken it out in the woods. It took about three days for everyone to quiet down.

Miguel might have believed that one for a day or so.

There were rumors about Stiles Stilinski, yes. Miguel grew up in Beacon Hills and watched it go from strange to stranger. Even so, he steered clear of Stilinski and his gang. His father had always told him to keep his head down and Miguel did just that.

He didn’t mean to run into Stiles in the parking lot.

When the boy wanted to, he could look as charming as the devil. He’d grown his hair out over the years, his once gangly frame had bulked up and widened out, and his smile was infectious.

Miguel couldn’t be blamed for the way his heart skipped a few beats when he nearly bowled Stiles over while heading to his car.

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, stumbling. Miguel went stock-still and glanced around the parking lot, waiting for one of Stilinski’s guards to come over and take him out. But nothing happened.

“I’m so sorry,” Miguel said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “I was in a hurry and I wasn’t looking where I was going and—”

“Hey, dude,” Stiles said, raising his hands. “It’s cool! Trust me, I know what it’s like to have literally no control over your own feet. There was this one time I was running away from a rogue wendigo and—”

Suddenly, there was a giant, looming figure standing behind Stiles. Miguel barely smothered a very unmanly noise and stumbled back a few steps and Stiles straightened too, whirling around.

But then he abruptly went lax.

“Derek, you giant asshole, we talked about this! The stalk-walk is how you get the cops called. And then you won’t be allowed to pick me up anymore!”

Derek only grunted and kept his eyes fixed on Miguel. He looked terrifyingly murderous.

“Anyway,” Stiles said, turning back around. “As I was saying… well, actually, I probably shouldn’t finish that story. But you get the gist, right?”

Wordlessly, Miguel nodded. He could’ve sworn Derek’s eyes flashed red for a moment. Stiles gave the man a sideways look and rolled his eyes, before turning back forward.

“Ignore Derek, he’s a bit of a fluff ball. I mean, the serial killer eyebrows tend to put most people off, but don’t be fooled. He’s not a serial killer! Or… usually. He’s respectable but, ya’ know, a little big doggy on certain days. Or full moons, I guess.”

“Stiles,” Derek growled. Terror coiled in Miguel’s gut but Stiles only chuckled.

“Okay, okay, let’s move along, big guy. Hey, it was nice running into you! Miguel, right?”

Derek’s eyes seemed to flash red again. Miguel could’ve sworn he missed something because Stiles’s smirk seemed to widen even more when he nodded. Turning away he heard the faint hiss of ‘that’s where it came from?’ and ‘yeah dude, I panicked.’ 

Miguel was still trembling when he pulled himself into his car.

Four years, a dozen accounts of murder, and one terrifying looking serial killer later, and Miguel decided when he graduated, he was leaving Beacon Hills forever. This place was ridiculous; and he didn’t think it was run by anyone other than Stiles Stilinski and his gang.

That shouldn’t have been as sexy as it was terrifying. Miguel had to get out of here.

Whether they were all rumors or not.

- -

Okay, I had too much fun with this one. Outsider!POV always gets me and I couldn’t resist with the name... I mean, leave it to Stiles to pull a random name from one of his classmates. That might be a new head-canon.

(if you enjoy my writing, consider supporting your underpaid student writer? You can also request a prompt if you’d like!). https://ko-fi.com/rh27writer

[caspian-skye]

Last of the Inyan, Part 3: This Isn’t the End

A bit ironic given the title, but this is part 3/3 of Alexandra’s backstory series. If you liked it, check out GRAE on fanficion (dot) net (I am not taking any chances with this not being shown up in tags after yesterday) and follow me here as I give updates on my next story!

“Man was born of dust, and eventually to dust he shall return.”

That was what my father once told me. This is the end of my second day with no water. The vultures descend with each hour. I fear I must finish my note soon, if I want it finished at all.

I guess I’ll conclude by telling the immediate events that brought me to this situation.

I’m tired of the desert. Whether I would have become so tired if that terrible night never happened, and I was still a member of the living Inyan tribe, I don’t know. I’m tired of being alone, watching society from the outside as I’m doomed to my stone huts and dark, quiet nights.

My prison of silent isolation.

A couple of days ago, I found my way to a village I had visited a handful of times in recent years. It sprung up almost overnight, but it seems permanent. I had just sold a stone flute when I heard in passing about “Great Canyon City.” Apparently, it’s a city along a massive river and next to what the man called a “dam.” It sounded like a city more advanced than any I’ve visited, entirely modern like the ones in other kingdoms.

I was, of course, troubled by the apparent mistreatment of faunus within the city. If you’ve read this far, you can probably figure out why I don’t exactly agree with the mistreatment of someone for some inborn quality, something they can’t change. Plus, I’ve met a few faunus, and the ratio of decent ones to criminals is the same as humans.

Still, an advanced city with all the food I could ever eat and water I could hope to drink granted a flicker of hope in my heart.

I set off the morning after visiting that village. I had only the roughest idea of where to go, Southeast, somewhat near the ocean. I figured if I found the river, I’d follow it, and I left it up to the whims of chance and luck whether the way I decided to go, either upstream or downstream, got me to my destination.

I never found the river.

My journey was normal for about two days. Wake early, move as far as I could and maybe find water, take shelter during the day’s hottest hours, and move again just before dusk. The Sun rose over the crest of a plateau, warming the desert and bathing it in orange hues. Heat waves rippled over the sand, creating the deceptive silvery hues I had grown to hate-- a mirage.

Yet something caught my eye. Three pillars of stone and a fourth halfway broken, each at the corner of a stone building. At its center, a dome.

My heart raced as I approached. I needed money if I was to find any form of comfort in Great Canyon City, after all. This half-buried temple could contain gold, jewelry, any number of other things. The stone front parted with a swipe of my hand, and I hopped down to the floor of the temple.

The room was rather small. Much bigger than the shelters I conjured from stone, of course, but I could have sprinted to the other end in a matter of seconds. Sun filtered in from cracks in the ceiling above, the illuminated floor below covered in piles of the sand that trickled down in an irregular stream. The ceiling was held up by ruined pillars, each with a myriad of splits and fissures, enough for me to reconsider my search. I rose some sand from the floor to bandage the pillars, just to be safe.

Once I reached the far end of the room, I could see my eyes reflecting on the mural of smooth stone. It was mostly black and white-- obsidian and alabaster, maybe? A colossal black snake with white armor coiled a pile of gold, skulls littering the outside of its lair. Next to the colossal snake, and with one hand on its black side, a woman with pure white skin and hair, eyes the color of blood.

She sent a shiver down my spine.

Below the mural, what looked like a lever. Everything told me to turn back. But that lever invited my hand. I felt as if I was a puppet as I reached out slowly. My fingers clasped the stone, and I pushed forward.

A horrible scraping noise echoed through the chamber as the ground behind me pulled down. With a clunk at each step, chunks of stone settled in at staggered heights, the first stairs in a set too long for me to know, as beyond about six or seven was choking darkness.

A flame danced in the palm of one hand, and I pulled a section of the mural behind me into a stone several inches across. I rolled it down the stairs.

Clunk.

Clunk.

Clunk.

Another horrific sound, the clamor of half a dozen stone spikes protruding from the stair the stone struck in an instant. I swept my hand in front of me as I descended, covering that particular step in several inches of stone. Bones littered the next several steps, adventurers who were apparently not so lucky.

I made it to the bottom of the stairs alive. I stood at the far end of a corridor. Its remarkably smooth floors had cracks at irregular intervals. They looked to be human made, as the straightness of the lines and smoothness of the edges could not have been natural. Yet there was no regularity to them.

Once again, I rolled a stone across the floor. Its knocking on the ground echoed throughout the silent cavern, and I jumped when a blaze of flame suddenly erupted from the crack with a vicious roar.

“Whatever’s in here, someone put it here. That someone really didn’t want it found,” I thought. After all, the temple looked to be old. A lot of Vacuo was destroyed during the Great War, but I wouldn’t be surprised if these ruins, further into the sea of stone and sand than I had ever been, had survived. They looked to be older, maybe even dating back to the lost kingdoms of long ago. My heart began to race.

My footsteps were the only sound, echoing off the walls and into the abyss of blackness. They picked up pace as I continued on for what felt like an eternity, leaping over the cracks of flame. Bones littered the floor, some charred to near nothingness.

Finally, a golden box, longer and wider than I was tall. It was ornately decorated, jewels and colored stone patterning the front. Behind it, a sarcophagus, the golden shape of a man wearing a jeweled crown and ornate robes. Beside him, another mural. The same woman with alabaster skin and hair, dark red eyes. She looked strangely sad.

I reached to the clasp of the golden chest.

Immediately, from every single crack in the floor behind me, a searing inferno burst forth. I backed into the chest, wide eyes watching the dancing flames. The entire corridor was lit now. It seemed to be about twenty feet wide and half as tall, but hundreds of feet long. The wall next to me began to move.

Then, from behind it, a low, guttural grunting.

My breath came uneasily and my heart beat into my throat as my head slowly turned.

Six eyes. One set easily the size of my head, the other two further back, and about half the size. In the second I shrieked, the colossal creature burst from the shadows. Its head was halfway between snake and alligator, covered entirely in white armor and reaching nearly to the ceiling. Its black body, spine and ribs spiked and white, dragged behind it.

The chest forgotten, I began to run.

I swept my arms in front of me with each step, parting the flame and sending it to the terrifying beast behind me. Whether my attacks missed, or the monster shrugged them off, I never had the confidence to check.

I heard what sounded like the beast getting violently ill. I looked over my shoulder in time to watch it hurl a glob of viscous black fluid toward me, and I ducked to the side. The attack splattered on the ground, and from it rose a beowolf.

I’ve hunted enough grimm by now that I eliminated it almost automatically with a stone spike through the gut. I didn’t notice the second that had rose from another black puddle just beside me, and barely dodged a swipe in time.

Its claws slashed my jug of water, wrenching it from my side and pulling me backward toward the massive snake-like beast still in pursuit. I have bad luck with water, I guess, because the container shattered across the floor. One hand raised to impale the beowolf with spears of ice, and the other commanded a torrent of fire back to the larger threat.

Once again, I began to run. This time, abandoning entirely the Basilisk and the beowolves that threatened to pull me into the blackness and flame. Three sounds echoed throughout the corridor in a cacophony: my breath, my sprinting footsteps, and the growls of the grimm behind me. Finally, I reached the staircase. My escape became harder, but the light filtering in from the top gave me the slightest hint of hope amid my terror.

I passed over the stair I covered, and revealed the booby trap that had been laid countless years ago.

I heard the Basilisk shriek as the stone spears launched from their hiding place. The beowolves still snapped at my cloak, but I heard the largest grimm, at least, begin to retreat. As I passed the columns supporting the temple’s ground floor, I blew out their bottoms, causing the ceiling to collapse.

I dove out of the doorway I had created just in time. The ground shook as the very last stones tumbled on top of each other, crushing the dozen or so grimm underneath.

I rolled over onto my back, catching my breath. My first thought was that I should have taken the mural, with the giant snake grimm and white-skinned woman, a little more seriously.

The second thought was that I was entirely without water.

I haven’t made it very far. Ten miles, maybe? It all looks the same. Desert sandier, drier, flatter than I’ve ever seen. Heat haze ripples in every direction as the temperature climbs higher than I’ve ever known.

My throat feels torn, my muscles are weak, and my head is pounding, but writing this as I resigned myself to death made me realize something. I’ve been alive in this desert for ten years for one reason: I survive. I survived the Inyan massacre, I survived the crushing weight of my own identity, and I survived hordes of grimm. I have to survive now, and however many more times, to avenge the Inyan tribe.

My name is Alexandra Ité.

If this note is found in the pocket of a dried-out skeleton, know that skeleton died fighting.